Chapter 23 FlightFlee
FLIGHT OR FLEE
ENYA
I’m closing the shop for the evening, humming as I stack empty vases, and wipe down the counter. Outside, the street is quiet, washed in a warm, honey-colored glow that settles in just before dusk.
Nick, finally, gave me time away from him—and for the first couple of hours, it was really lovely. Luxurious, even. But then I began to miss him. A lot.
How quickly you start to depend on someone.
How easily they become woven into the shape of your days—your whole life.
The bell above the door jingles.
I frown, glancing up. “Sorry, we’re closed.”
A man steps inside anyway.
Tall. Broad. The hood of his jacket is pulled low over his face, shadowing his eyes. He doesn’t apologize, doesn’t hesitate, just keeps walking toward me.
“Hi,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice. “Like I said, we’re closed.”
My chest tightens.
This part of D.C. is safe, and yet every alarm in my body starts screaming at once, red lights flaring in places I didn’t know I had neurons.
My gaze flicks to the counter my hands are resting on, and my mind ventures to the lockbox hidden beneath it.
“Can I help you?” I manage to say as my fingers slide along below the counter until they brush the cool metal beneath.
The lockbox hums as it recognizes my thumbprint. I feel the faint clicks as it disengages.
“You’re Enya Cahill.” His accent is Russian.
I have no idea why I lie, but I know I must. “No.”
He throws his hood back, and he’s the perfect typecasting for a Russian villain in a Bond movie. He smirks. “I know who you are.”
He lunges.
I scream.
His hand clamps around my arm.
I twist, driving my elbow hard into his ribs because Grandma Lucille insisted on self-defense classes. “Sweet girl, you never know who you’ll meet when you’re alone.”
He grunts—surprised more than hurt.
I reach for the lockbox, desperate now. I don’t know who this man is, but I know one thing with bone-deep certainty—he’s here to hurt me and my baby.
Not going to happen.
He catches my wrist.
“Come with me,” he says.
“Absolutely not,” I snap.
He yanks me toward him, but he’s too slow—he wasn’t expecting resistance.
I wrench free just enough to shove my hand into the lockbox. My fingers close around cold metal.
Grandma Lucille’s Glock.
I’ve only used it at the range. Not recently. I’m praying it’s like riding a bicycle and that I’ll know what to do.
I rip it free, flick off the safety, and point it straight at the Russian man, even though my hands shake like leaves.
He freezes for a moment and then takes a step toward me. He’s not afraid.
“Stop. Now.” My voice is steel. It has to be. I have a baby to protect.
I don’t want to shoot a man. I don’t want to kill anyone. I will if I have to, but….
I don’t know what makes him hesitate, but he does, just long enough.
I shove him backward with everything I have. He stumbles, off-balance.
I don’t wait.
I bolt through the front door and into the street, my heart pounding in my throat, the gun still clenched in my hand.
And I slam straight into Nick.
His arms come around me instantly. Solid. Safe. “Enya? What the—”
Behind me, the man bursts out of the shop.
Nick moves before I can blink.
One second, he’s holding me. The next, he’s got the man pinned against the brick wall, arm twisted brutally behind his back.
“Touch her again,” Nick snarls, “and see what happens.”
The man spits words out in Russian.
Nick’s jaw flexes, and he replies in Russian.
Then he knocks the man out cold.
You learn something new about your baby daddy every day, I think, feeling hysteria build, and today I learned that he’s good at hand-to-hand combat and speaks Russian.
I stand, shaking, the gun dangling uselessly from my fingers, my brain registering absurd details—like how much that must’ve hurt Nick’s knuckles.
Nick drags the man inside Lucille’s. I follow, my legs moving me like I’m a robot.
He grabs the thick twist ties I use to secure bouquets, and turns them into makeshift cuffs, binding the man to the leg of the counter like it’s second nature. He pats the unconscious Russian down, finds a weapon, and slips it into his jacket pocket.
He wore a suit today. He doesn’t look like a man who wears suits right now, though.
He looks feral.
And terrifying.
And…hot.
Nick turns back to me, his eyes scanning every inch of my body like he needs proof I’m still intact. “Did he hurt you?”
He already has his phone out, already calling someone.
“N-no,” I manage.
“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “He’s here.” Pause. “No, he’s alive.” Pause. “Yes, he’s secured.”
He hangs up, and focuses on me. He gently takes the gun from my hand and tucks it into the small of his back. Then he settles me against him.
That’s all it takes for me to rather spectacularly…break.
It’s the adrenaline. That’s what I tell myself as my knees go weak and I cling to him, the only solid thing left in the world.
He cups my face, forcing me to look at him.
“I could’ve lost you,” he says, his voice shaking.
“You didn’t.”
He swallows hard. “Marry me.”
“Nick—”
The man has the strangest timing. I’m two seconds away from having a nervous breakdown, and he’s proposing?
“I’m serious,” he says fiercely. “I want to marry you. I want to be your husband. I want to be the father of our baby. I want to protect you for the rest of my life. Marry me.”
My heart stutters.
“Nick,” I rage whisper, “you can’t propose because I got attacked.”
“I’m not.” He draws me closer. “I want to marry you because I love you. And because watching someone try to take you from me made me realize I can’t spend another day pretending I’m not yours.”
He’s right. He could’ve lost me.
And then what?
I would’ve held on to months of anger and fear for what?
It’s time to let go, Enya. Let go of the past. This man has proven—again and again—that he loves you. So, love him back. Trust him. Let go.
“Okay.”
He scowls. “Okay to what, exactly?”
I let out a shaky, half-hysterical laugh. “Okay. Let’s get married.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”